George also gained important (although somewhat inaccurate) knowledge about the operation of the V-1s, information the average Londoner already knew and used almost daily. The enemy’s flying bomb was powered by a jet engine. The engine was noisy and as it reached the airspace over London, it sputtered and then went silent. Hearing this sequence, a pedestrian had about thirty seconds to find shelter. This design flaw led many in England to the false conclusion that a flying bomb carried just enough fuel to get it to Britain and, once over its target, its jet engine simply “ran out of gas.”
Actually the German scientists had developed not only a complicated guidance system using a magnetic compass and a gyroscope, they had also invented an equally complex system that shut off the jet engines’ fuel supply once it was over the target. When the power source was starved of fuel, the
flying
bomb was supposed to fall on its victims, much like a conventional bomb. In reality, the bombs glided for some time and distance after
the jet engine was heard to shut down. Thus the Germans had unintentionally provided some advance warning of the deadly explosions.
Upon returning to his hotel, George also learned one of the advantages of staying at one of London’s better establishments. You never knew whom you might bump into in the lobby—in this case, two American movie stars. Dinah Shore and Danny Kaye were in England on a morale tour; at the same time, they were promoting their new movie,
Up in Arms,
and they were staying at George’s hotel. The young ball turret gunner elbowed his way through the crowd surrounding the celebrities and managed to shake hands with the comedian and even get an autograph from the beautiful actress. As she handed him the piece of paper bearing her signature, she flashed that famous Dinah Shore smile in his direction. George was hooked.
Word spread among the lobby crowd that Miss Shore would be performing a song from her movie that very evening during a stage show. George and several of his crewmates were in the audience when the curtain went up. His favorite part of the show was when Dinah Shore sang “Tess’s Torch Song.” Heading back to Polebrook the following evening, the image of Shore’s performance kept running through George’s thoughts.
When Walker’s crew resumed flying combat missions, someone protested that it was high time they decided on a name for their aircraft. When their popular young ball turret gunner blurted out, “How about Torchy Tess?” to his surprise, no one objected. A vote was taken, and in August 1944 the silver B-17 named
Torchy Tess
(now with a few battle patches) was taking them to Berlin.
George’s mission count soon passed any other member of Marvin Walker’s crew. As a good ball turret gunner, he was in demand
to fly extra missions with other crews. Although the extra missions held the promise of getting him home to the States sooner, he never liked flying with a different crew. The ball turret was a lonely position, and he depended on his buddies above him to keep him up to speed on what was happening in the bomber. Once, when the interphone system was knocked out by flak, George was worried he would not hear the bailout alarm if it sounded. He opened the turret hatch and yelled at Buddy Armstrong, the waist gunner: “Hey, bang on the top of the turret every now and then to let me know you’re still up here.”
Armstrong smiled and nodded. George ducked back into his turret and closed the hatch, confident that his crewmate would never leave without him. Each time he flew with an unfamiliar crew, he wondered if he could trust them with his life. On his fifth such mission, he decided he had had enough.
With one of the bomber’s engines shut down by flak, George sat in his turret and watched the earth gradually coming closer and closer. If he had been flying with his regular crew, they would have been chatting on the interphone all the way back to England. This crew, including the pilot, was strangely silent as their B-17 continued to lose altitude. As soon as they cleared the English coast, the pilot sat the bomber down safely at the first available air base, but George had reached a crucial decision.
He marched into Operations and told the officer in charge that he would gladly fly for Lieutenant Marvin Walker and his crew, “Anywhere, anytime!” But he added, “In the future, I won’t fly with another crew!”
The Operations officer was just as direct. “No, if you are assigned to another crew, you will have to fly with them.”
George walked out without additional comment, but he was determined to stand his ground. He went straight to Walker’s barracks and told his commander of his decision. Walker told his young ball turret gunner to get some rest and then go get a
beer. Then the pilot headed in the direction of the Operations building. George would never know what his airplane commander said to the Operations officer, but he was never again assigned to fly with any bomber crew other than Lieutenant Marvin Walker’s.
George had come close to insubordination with the Operations officer, but he felt he had a good reason and stood on principle. A separate incident that got him into hot water could only be attributed to foolhardiness. When it was over, he could not explain why he had done it. Perhaps, even after numerous combat missions, there was still much of the teenage boy inside him. Perhaps he did it just to prove once again that ball turret gunners were different.
One night in a local pub he was drinking with a group of airmen when the conversation turned to oddball stunts. One airman happened to mention that he knew of a ball turret gunner who, after returning from a bombing mission, decided he needed just a little more excitement. As the bomber crossed into English airspace, a time when a belly gunner would usually crawl out of the ball turret, the man stayed put. In fact, the sto ryteller proclaimed, “He rode in that turret all the way down and through the landing.”
Most of the airmen at the bar laughed, being of the opinion the tale was far-fetched. However, one veteran ball turret gunner silenced the doubters. “I believe it, because I’ve done it myself.” The man went on to describe in detail the experience of watching the runway rise up at him while he sat beneath the massive aircraft. “When the wheels touch down, your ass is only eighteen inches above the runway.”
“What if one of the tires was to blow out, or the landing gear failed?” someone asked.
“Then I wouldn’t be here talking about it,” the ball turret veteran said, and took a long drink of his ale. George sat quietly as the conversation drifted elsewhere. He was proud of being a ball turret gunner—one of the youngest in the Eighth Air Force. It was sort of a small club. But to be able to say you had ridden in the turret all the way through a landing, that was something George found intriguing.
It took very little investigation to discover that remaining in a ball turret during a landing was a violation of Eighth Air Force regulations. This did not discourage George, but it did require some secrecy. Only one of
Torchy Tess’s
waist gunners would need to know of his plan in advance. Eighth Air Force bombers were by then flying missions with nine-man crews. Both waist gunners remained on Walker’s crew, but they flew alternating missions. Also, Sergeant Paul A. Schrader, who at over six feet tall was cramped in his tail gunner’s compartment, often swapped gun positions with Duke or Armstrong. George would have to let whoever was flying as waist gunner in on his plan, because if he did not emerge from his turret before landing, the waist gunner would surely try to reach him via the interphone and Lieutenant Walker would be listening.
The feat would need to be accomplished following a bombing mission during which
Torchy Tess
was untouched by flak—something of a rarity. George wanted to be beneath a perfectly functioning aircraft when he tried it. Soon such an opportunity arrived.
So George stayed inside the ball turret as Walker piloted the bomber back across the North Sea and past the English coast. During a normal landing, a ball turret gunner would wait until the bomber’s wheels were lowered, do a visual check for any flak damage or other potential problems, and then exit through the turret hatch into the main fuselage compartment. In order to use the hatch in this manner, the ball turret’s guns had
to be pointing straight down. Once inside the bomber, the gunner would use a hand crank to manually rotate the turret so the guns were facing aft. This was the regulation position of the turret during landing.
To escape detection from anyone in the control tower, George would need to turn the turret until his guns faced backward. Once the airplane was on the ground, it would be impossible for him to exit into the B-17. The runway would simply be too close to turn the guns straight down. He would have to make a quick exit out the back of the turret, in the direction of the bomber’s nose.
England was lush and green below as
Torchy Tess
began her approach to Polebrook. George saw the bomber’s wheels come down from the wings. Everything looked in order. No flak damage anywhere. Up front, all four propellers were spinning smoothly.
No reason it should not be a perfect landing,
he thought, and swung the turret until its guns were pointed at the tail of the bomber.
He would have preferred the forward view of the landing, but his position soon proved thrilling enough. As the surface of the runway raced closer and closer, until it was only a few feet away, the young belly gunner had a second of doubt:
Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
The B-17’s wheels tweaked the runway. George had a sudden sensation of speed unlike anything he had ever experienced in the air. It was as if he were riding in a fast race car—backward. Then the tail end of the bomber settled down on the small rear wheel, and the ball turret dropped to within inches of the runway.
“What a ride!” George yelled at the top of his voice as Walker slowed the bomber to taxi speed. As soon as
Torchy Tess
came to a stop, George popped open the hatch and lowered himself onto the tarmac. Nobody on board the B-17 was the wiser except his waist gunner friend, and he would never tell. Someone
on the ground crew, however, spotted him leaving the turret and reported the incident to the aircraft’s commander.
Marvin Walker confronted his young turret gunner, and George immediately confessed the deed. The pilot showed no anger, but he made it clear that such juvenile behavior would not be tolerated on his crew. They were risking their lives on every mission, but unnecessary risks were foolish.
“Don’t ever do it again,” Walker warned.
“No, sir!” George assured him. Then the two men walked together to the post-mission interrogation room. Almost in a whisper, the pilot asked, “What was it like, George?”
“Great!” the belly gunner replied with a grin.
George Ahern was born on May 10, 1925, in the small town of Branford, Connecticut, which was nestled along the Long Island shoreline just east of New Haven. Most of Branford’s male residents worked at the local wire mill. George’s father, John, had served as an artillery captain during World War I. His mother, the former Hazel Baisely, raised three daughters and her one son to adulthood, only to suffer the heartache of seeing her firstborn, Patricia, die at twenty-one. Soon afterward, George graduated from Branford High School and joined the Army.
Hazel Ahern wrote to her son often, as did George’s sisters, Betty and Joan. Happily, the young airman could usually count on a letter from at least one family member when mail call was announced. Those letters were his lifeline to the world he hoped to return to when all his bombing missions were completed. George tried to think of it as
when
and not
if
he got through all his missions.
As welcome as letters from home were, he regretted not having a girlfriend with whom he could correspond. He had dated several girls during his senior year, but because of his quick departure
there had been little time for any serious relationship to blossom. Now, as fellow airmen received letters and packages from girlfriends and wives stateside, George was envious.
A few of his friends had managed to meet English girls but the opportunities were rare, and the competition was fierce. Nineteen-year-old George was experienced beyond his years at warfare, but even he had to admit, he was no smooth operator when it came to women. One day at mail call, his luck changed.
The letter was postmarked Hamden, and the handwriting on the envelope was unfamiliar. George opened it carefully but still had to react quickly to keep a small photo from falling to the ground. The girl in the photo was pretty . . .
very pretty,
George thought. And if it was a recent snapshot, she was just a teenager. He tucked the picture back into the envelope and found a quiet place to read the letter.
Her name was Marie. She was just eighteen but lived on her own at the YWCA in Hamden, Connecticut. That is where she met George’s sister Betty during a dance the Y had hosted for cadets from nearby Yale. Betty was certain her brother would enjoy being pen pals with the new friend. Marie hoped it was okay. George tacked her picture on his bunk. It was more than okay.
Once he had replied, Marie’s letters came regularly. George read each one over and over. He made sure to answer every letter Marie sent. The text of her letters was light and sometimes funny, and each one revealed a little more of a young woman George was growing anxious to meet.
Marie Spilane had grown into an independent adult quicker than most girls. At the age of eleven, her mother had died and an absentee father allowed little Marie to be taken in by her mother’s sister, Aunt Helen, who Marie called Nell. By the age of seventeen, Marie was employed as a bookkeeper at a corset
company that had been converted to parachute manufacturing. When she turned eighteen, Marie moved into the YWCA.
One evening at a dance she met Betty Ahern. When Betty proudly produced a picture of her brother “serving with the Eighth Air Force in England,” Marie’s reaction was, “He’s so cute.” He seemed much too young to have already seen combat over Germany.